Chapter 6 - Lilac

The tension lingered like smoke, winding silently through the cozy cabin as I rose carefully from the couch. Makayla sat quietly, her eyes fixed thoughtfully on the crackling fireplace, her fingers twitching slightly against the now-empty space on her lap. Pockets had climbed down from Makayla’s legs, stretched luxuriously, and padded toward me across the worn wood floor. He lifted his sweet, expressive face, offering a soft whine until I crouched and gently scratched behind his ears.

“Hello again,” I whispered, smiling when his eyes drifted closed in pure bliss. “Looks like you’ve made yourself at home.”

He nudged my hand affectionately before following me closely toward the kitchen. Behind me, I could feel Makayla’s gaze following my movements—curious, cautious, and sharply observant. It wasn’t overt suspicion. It was more like a wary uncertainty that mirrored my own.

I busied myself filling the kettle and setting it on the stove, the faint click of the burner igniting as I reached into the cupboard for two mugs. Through the archway separating the kitchen from the living room, I stole another subtle glance toward Makayla, who had shifted slightly, still staring pensively into the flames. She winced quietly as she repositioned, one hand gently pressed to her ribs.

In profile, her vibrant rainbow-dyed hair looked oddly subdued in the low firelight, colors muted but still distinctly hers. I’d seen her before—online, arm-in-arm with Stacey, the charming senator always wearing her polished public smile. Photos had shown a Makayla that seemed happy, maybe even adoring. But this Makayla was different. She was sharper, more guarded. Whatever affection she’d held for Stacey had clearly fractured into something complicated, raw, and unresolved.

The kettle whistled, snapping me from my thoughts, and I quickly poured hot water over chamomile tea bags, fragrant steam curling gently upward as I watched the water darken. I carried the mugs into the living area, Pockets padding happily at my heels. As I gently set one mug on the table beside Makayla, she looked up and offered a quiet, grateful smile.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“You’re welcome.” I sank back onto the couch, tucking my legs beneath me and carefully cradling my mug. Pockets hopped up beside me immediately, curling into a compact, contented ball, a sigh whispering from his tiny chest. I smiled despite myself, warmth blossoming at his affection.

Makayla watched quietly, her expression softening slightly as she watched her dog—clearly surprised and perhaps a little stung by how easily he’d warmed to me. Her eyes flicked upward, meeting mine briefly. We held the gaze, an unspoken conversation dancing between us. I could sense her weighing me, cautiously assessing what I represented—whether I was an ally or an enemy.

“You live here full time?” she finally asked, breaking the silence gently.

I nodded, sipping slowly before answering. “It’s quiet. And beautiful. But isolated, especially in storms.”

Makayla’s eyes drifted toward the swirling snow visible through the window, shadows flickering briefly in her expression. “Must get lonely.”

“It can,” I admitted carefully, my gaze fixed steadily upon her. “But there are worse things than solitude.”

A flash of emotion crossed her face—fleeting, raw. I saw the unspoken hurt beneath the carefully constructed mask of composure she wore. This woman had clearly come face-to-face with those “worse things,” and she carried those scars quietly beneath the surface.

Whatever Makayla was hiding had cost her deeply, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that before this storm passed, I’d learn exactly what secrets haunted her. The quiet settled around us, broken only by the soft hiss of burning logs and Pockets’ steady breathing beside me. Makayla’s silence lingered, heavier now after my gentle prodding. Her eyes dropped to the mug cradled in her hands, fingers curling tighter around the warm ceramic as if seeking comfort or courage. It was clear my subtle attempts to draw her out weren’t working; if anything, she seemed to withdraw further into herself.

Still, I couldn’t let it go entirely—not yet.

“You know,” I said softly, measuring my words carefully, “Most people wouldn’t brave this kind of weather just for a breakup.”

Her shoulders stiffened slightly, the only clear sign that my words had landed somewhere sensitive. Makayla took another sip, avoiding my eyes, deliberately buying herself time. When she finally met my gaze again, her expression was guarded and carefully composed.

“It wasn’t just about ending things,” she replied quietly. Her tone was neutral, almost clinical, revealing little. “It was more complicated than that.”

“How complicated could it possibly be?” I pressed, keeping my voice gentle despite the skepticism that leaked through. “People fight, relationships end, but they rarely involve risking your life on a mountain road during a blizzard.”

Makayla hesitated again, her teeth briefly biting down on her lower lip. It was a tiny, fleeting gesture but spoke volumes about the turmoil beneath her calm façade. When she spoke, her voice remained measured, her words carefully chosen. “Sometimes relationships aren’t what they seem from the outside. I needed clarity.”

I raised an eyebrow, quietly assessing her again. Clarity? It sounded plausible enough, but it didn’t explain the urgency, the flash drive, or how she guarded her answers so cautiously. I knew better than most about relationships hiding dark secrets, especially when one of the people involved was Stacey.

As far as Stacey is concerned, she was an only child, and our stepdad was her father. Honestly, that’s what pissed me off the most. I didn’t care if she didn’t want to acknowledge me as her sister, but the fact she wiped our dad from her history was too far. I’ve known since we were kids, and our parents divorced Stacey was ashamed of our dad. Apparently, environmental law was beneath her.

I’ve never called Mitch ‘dad’ or any word that has a similar meaning to that. Stacey, however, went the opposite; she calls Mitch’s Dad while she calls our dad Mr. Ray or Jacob if she’s being informal. It grinds my gears every time I hear it. Of course, I haven’t heard her call our dad by his name since high school when she cut off all contact with either of us. Every website that gives Stacey’s bio lists Mitchell Sherbourn as her father and, of course, no mention of a sister. She’s carefully cultivated a background that suited what she wanted people to see.

“I suppose clarity is important,” I murmured carefully, taking a slow sip of tea, the warm liquid soothing my throat but doing little to ease my growing suspicion. “But you could’ve just called.”

She met my gaze again, something harder flashing briefly in her eyes. Her jaw tightened, and for a moment, I glimpsed the fierce resolve that had driven her through that storm. “No. This had to be handled face-to-face. There was too much at stake to trust to a phone call.”

“Too much at stake?” I repeated softly, unable to disguise my curiosity. I leaned forward slightly, not pressing too hard but making my interest clear. “That sounds serious.”

Makayla exhaled slowly, visibly conflicted. Her careful mask slipped just enough for me to see the raw edges of something painful, something dangerously close to betrayal. “It is serious. But it’s also private.”

Her guarded expression only intensified my suspicion. My sister’s involvement added another layer of concern I couldn’t ignore. Whatever Makayla knew—whatever had brought her here—it had to do with Stacey’s political maneuvers, something deeply personal and possibly damaging.

Yet Makayla remained tight-lipped, and every carefully withheld answer made my suspicions grow sharper. Too many pieces were missing, and the woman across from me held them close, reluctant or unwilling to share.

I settled back into the couch again, fingers tightening around my mug, watching Makayla carefully. Her silence spoke louder than any words she’d offered so far. Whatever secrets she guarded were bigger than a broken heart, and I wasn’t about to let her leave without uncovering exactly what they were.

I shifted my weight subtly, my fingers tracing the edge of the mug as I studied Makayla’s guarded expression. Her silence was growing heavy, but I couldn’t let the topic die completely. Something told me that beneath her quiet, cautious exterior was a truth she desperately wanted to hide—a truth about Stacey.

“You know,” I began carefully, watching her reaction closely, “You’re not the first person I’ve met who’s questioned Stacey Sherbourn’s motives.”

Makayla’s gaze snapped to mine immediately, her eyes narrowing slightly. Her shoulders straightened, the sudden tension obvious in her posture stiffening, though she quickly attempted to mask her reaction.

“Oh?” she asked, keeping her tone carefully casual. “What have you heard?”

“Rumors, mostly,” I replied slowly, deliberately vague. “Senator Sherbourn has a way of putting on a good show, doesn’t she? People seem to believe everything she says.”

Makayla’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around her mug, and she looked away sharply, swallowing hard. “Politicians usually do.”

“True enough,” I agreed, leaning forward just a little. “But Stacey’s good—better than most at selling an image of integrity. She knows exactly what to say to make people trust her.”

Makayla’s expression flickered, something raw and pained briefly surfacing before she regained control. Her gaze darted back to me, wary but searching, as if trying to decipher how much I truly knew.

“What exactly are you getting at?” she asked, her voice tight, edged with barely suppressed defensiveness.

I took a measured breath, choosing my words with precision. “Let’s just say I’m skeptical of Colorado’s Senator Sherbourn. Especially lately. The policies she claims to oppose and the environmental regulations she promises to protect feel like lip service. Rumor is she’s made deals behind closed doors that directly contradict everything she tells the public.”

Makayla remained silent, her jaw clenching tightly. The flash of anger in her eyes was unmistakable, and though she kept her expression neutral, I had touched on something deeply personal.

“Rumors can be dangerous,” Makayla finally murmured, forcing a calm she obviously didn’t feel. “They’re not always reliable.”

“Maybe not,” I conceded quietly, “But sometimes a kernel of truth is buried inside. Sometimes, the person who seems most trustworthy has the deepest secrets.”

She stared into the fire, refusing to meet my gaze, her expression haunted. Her careful control was slipping, her defenses fracturing slightly beneath the weight of the conversation.

I waited a beat longer, giving her space to say more, but she remained stubbornly silent. Finally, I sighed and leaned back, allowing the silence to stretch between us again. It was enough for now. Her reaction told me what I’d suspected: Stacey’s corruption wasn’t just a vague suspicion for Makayla. It was personal, painful, and very real.

Before we could say anything else, the wind outside intensified, a howling gust slamming violently against the cabin’s walls. The entire structure shuddered, and we both turned sharply toward the window. Snow swirled viciously beyond the glass, thicker and heavier than before, blotting out the world in a wall of white.

“Storm’s getting worse,” I muttered, pushing myself up to cross the room and peer outside. Visibility was practically zero now. The trees bent alarmingly under the accumulating snow, branches sagging, threatening to break.

“Does that happen often?” Makayla asked quietly, concern evident as she carefully joined me at the window, wincing at every step.

“Not often,” I admitted, dread settling heavily in my stomach. “But when it does, there’s no getting out. We’re snowed in for at least a couple of days.”

She sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes wide with sudden panic. “A few days?”

“Yeah,” I confirmed, nodding slowly as I assessed the worsening conditions outside. “Maybe longer if it doesn’t let up soon.”

Makayla’s expression turned fearful momentarily before quickly smoothing into fierce determination. She stared out into the relentless blizzard, fists clenched at her sides.

In the silence that followed, above the wind’s fierce cry, a sudden, sharp cracking sound echoed through the cabin, splintering the tension like breaking glass. We spun around as the cabin shuddered again, the groaning timbers louder and sharper.

“Lilac—” Makayla’s voice was sharp, urgent.

But before I could respond, another sharp crack rang out. The fire was unceremoniously snuffed out, and darkness swallowed the cabin whole.